


As tears go by

by chilibabie07



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: (by various Thrombeys), Anxiety Attacks, BAMF Marta Cabrera, Don't copy to another site, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, He also needs to admit to his faults and asshole-ish behavior, Marta Cabrera Needs A Hug, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Racism, Ransom Drysdale Needs A Hug, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23006053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chilibabie07/pseuds/chilibabie07
Summary: After his parole hearing, it had taken a week for everything to be processed and discussed. But finally, eight days after he’d been in that courtroom again, nearly two years after he’d sat in the uncomfortable chair for the first time, his lawyer visited him in prison and told him the good news. Parole. Not allowed to leave the state. Not exactly free, but not locked up either.
Relationships: Marta Cabrera/Ransom Drysdale
Comments: 14
Kudos: 87





	As tears go by

**Author's Note:**

> Grammarly suggests the summary sounds angry. 
> 
> This is my first Knives out fic. I had this idea in my head and decided to write it down. Now I have a rough outline, a detailed outline of the second chapter, and a written first chapter. I thought about waiting with posting, but honestly, I'm very excited and decided to post now. 
> 
> I've used the Graphic Depictions of Violence tag to be on the safe side, there will be some recounting of Ransom's time in prison later on, but nothing too explicit.
> 
> Disclaimer: I am 100% sure that the Ransom Drysdale, or Thrombey, we have seen in the movie is not actually capable of guilty feelings and/or remorse. He's a grade-A asshole and deserves everything he got. But I had this idea, of Marta getting therapy, after witnessing a suicide and having her trust issues abused. And then I thought, what if Ransom got therapy, too, because Linda somehow still has money and thought that with a little therapy, her son's murder thoughts could go away. And thus this fic was born.
> 
> WARNING: SPOILERS FOR THE ENTIRE MOVIE! Yes, it's been a while since it came out, but I haven't been able to see it until last Thursday, so I thought I'd warn for those, who've also not seen it yet. 
> 
> I'm planning on getting a chapter update out every other week, but I'm not promising anything, so please don't yell at me if that doesn't happen. If you're interested in my writing progress, I recently made a [Dreamwidth](https://depressivesth.dreamwidth.org/) account, where I'm planning to post about what I'm working on, how far I'm getting on a project, etc. This blog will feature a lot of Marvel and Stucky, so be prepared for that. 
> 
> So without further ado, let's start with the first chapter!
> 
> Fic title from 'As tears go by' by the Rolling Stones

Marta stood on the balcony, overlooking the driveway of the huge mansion. The Thrombey clan was down below, some staring up at her, some staring at Ransom Drysdale being escorted to the police car, hands cuffed behind his back.

She pulled the blanket tighter around her body and held onto her mug with both hands. To warm them and to stop them from shaking. The shock still sat deep in her bones and she didn’t think it would go away anytime soon.

Had that knife not been a prop, had he grabbed another knife, a real one, she’d be dead by now. She could still feel the place on her chest throb with phantom pain as if he really had stabbed her. Had that been a real knife… no. It hadn’t. It was a prop, he didn’t kill her, she didn’t die. She was still alive and well, or as well as one could be after that. 

She tightened her grip on the mug. Her hands had started shaking despite holding on to something. She didn’t think anyone could be able to see the tiny movements from down there, but still. She didn’t want them to see that she was barely holding it together. 

She threw one last glance at Ransom as he was pushed into the car. Before vanishing, he turned his head and stared up at her, a grin playing with the corners of his mouth. She held his gaze for just a moment, and then he was gone. The police officers got into the car as well, one in the driver’s seat, one in the back, _to keep an eye on Ransom, to make sure he doesn’t escape and really kills me this time,_ a voice whispered in her head. 

She let her eyes drift away, back to the rest of the Thrombeys’. Now that Ransom was gone, they were all staring up at her. Walt and Donna, with their kid, the Nazi; Joni and Meg, who stared at Marta teary-eyed; Linda, smoking like always, and, a few steps away, Richard. They all stared up at her with various levels of malevolence. 

Marta averted her eyes and saw Benoit Blanc with Harlan’s mother to the side, and if that wasn’t strange enough, as far as Marta could see, they appeared to be deep in conversation. About what, that was questionable, given that she had barely heard her talk in the time she’d been caring for Harlan. 

The police car siren started wailing loudly, before pulling out of the driveway, taking the solution to the case, what Benoit Blanc had essentially described as a missing hole in a donut, away, taking the man who had attempted to kill her in cold blood away. She dared to hope that she would never have to see this man again, that she would never have to hear from this man again. 

Slowly, the Thrombeys’ parted ways and went to their assorted cars, leaving, too, but not without throwing last glances of bitter hate towards Marta. Even Meg, who had claimed to be her friend, but then told her entire family about Marta’s mom, didn’t throw her a friendly glance, but one that said _‘I’m disappointed in you, I thought we were friends, I thought you wouldn’t do this’_. Marta ignored it. Like she ignored everyone else’s stares.

Instead, she raised her head and looked over at the narrow street that winded its path through trees and bushes, looking unkempt and eerie. From here she could see the elephant statue and it was as if suddenly there was her car, leaving the street and driving between the trees to the right on that fateful night. 

She closed her eyes, counted to five and opened them again. Nothing. The illusion was gone. Instead, the Thrombeys’ cars were pulling away from the mansion one by one, making their way towards the town. Marta noticed Benoit Blanc getting in his car, together with Harlan’s mom and she made a mental note to call him and ask what’s going to happen to her. And then they were gone, too. 

Suddenly they were all gone. And she was alone. Alone on the balcony of Harlan’s house, _her_ house. She threw one last glance towards where everyone vanished into the trees and turned around. She stepped into the house and closed the door. For a moment, she just stood there, lost in her head. She mentally shook herself before walking down the steps and into the library, staring at the knife wheel. In front of it was the huge, greenish carpet, and Marta could make out the exact spot where she had thrown up on Ransom Drysdale not even an hour ago.

She stared at the spot for a while, before shaking her head to get herself out of the trance-like state. Then she got to work.

*********************

_One year and ten months later_

Lighting flashes across the sky, and a few seconds later, thunder rumbles loudly in the distance. Heavy rain falls onto the narrow street winding its way through thick forest. It’s only five pm and yet it’s completely dark outside. 

A taxi makes its way slowly through the woods, some small radio channel blasting over the cheap speakers, trying to drown the rumbling thunder, but it doesn’t succeed.

Two men sit in the car, one in the driver’s seat, singing along to whatever new pop song is playing; the other in the backseat, his body hiding in tattered, old clothes. A worn sweater tries its best to warm the owner’s upper body, washed-out jeans hide away once muscled legs. A long coat helps the sweater keep the man warm, but the cold still manages to sneak through the fabric. 

It’s only September, but still, it’s as cold as in early winter. The man on the backseat hopes that it won’t stay this cold yet, he hasn’t exactly got the right clothes for weather like this. 

He clutches a faded, brown duffle bag to his chest, knuckles white with how tight he holds onto it. The bag contains all his belongings, everything he owns, everything that’s left. 

The taxi rumples around another corner and finally, its destination comes into view. An old mansion towers before them, some windows illuminated by a light inside, some dark, hiding what’s behind them, like they don’t want any secrets known to outsiders.

They come to a halt in front of the covered porch, a light turning on next to the massive, two-wing door. Motion sensors. 

Ransom Drysdale steps out of the taxi, gripping the old duffle bag with his things in his right hand. He pays the driver, who quickly pockets the money, and closes the door. The taxi drives away, leaving Ransom standing in the pouring rain, heavy water drops pitter-pattering onto his head and shoulders. 

He climbs the stairs onto the porch and stops in front of the door. His gaze wanders over the wood; it’s gotten a fresh paint since the last time he was here. The plants on both sides are new, too, as are the table and chairs in one corner. 

He lifts the hand not holding onto the duffle bag, finger hovering over the doorbell. He knows it’s probably a mistake, coming here. After everything that’s happened. After everything he’s done. He’s sure she won’t let him in, not after…

He drops his hand and sighs, looking at the floor, at his boots, splattered with mud, wet from the rain. He turns around and stares out into the trees. The bright fingers from the light on the porch don’t reach far, stopping shortly after the first tree line. Maybe they’re afraid. Maybe they don’t bother trying to illuminate something that doesn’t want to be illuminated. 

After his parole hearing, it had taken a week for everything to be processed and discussed. But finally, eight days after he’d been in that courtroom again, nearly two years after he’d sat in the uncomfortable chair for the first time, his lawyer visited him in prison and told him the good news. Parole. Not allowed to leave the state. Not exactly free, but not locked up either. 

Ransom hoped that maybe his family would be there. Or at least his mother. But as he stepped out of the prison, in the clothes he’s wearing now, with the duffle bag hugged to his chest, no one waited for him. No one stood outside, ready to take care of him, now, that he had no house, no belongings except what he was wearing and the contents of the bag. He never thought he’d experience the feeling of loneliness. But at that moment, as he stepped out of the prison walls, back turned towards what had been his personal hell for the past 22 months, he was filled with loneliness.

He still had some money, the rest of what had been in his wallet when he had been arrested. He walked to the nearest telephone box and dialed his mother’s number. The automated voice told him that the number no longer existed. 

He stood there in the telephone box for a few minutes, head leaned against the dirty glass wall, eyes closed, face turned to the ground. He took a deep breath in and let it out after a few seconds, slowly and steady. Just like his therapist told him, he repeated the breathing exercise for a few minutes. After, he was kinda surprised that he didn’t panic, but he guessed the breathing exercise really did work. 

The telephone box was his second last stop before his current destination. The last one was an Internet cafe he remembered being around here. Once there, he googled the Thrombey name and read through the recent articles. Apparently his mother divorced his father. He couldn’t say he was sad. Richard had cheated on Linda for a long time, and while he didn’t particularly like his mother, he was of the opinion that she deserved someone better. 

There wasn’t much info about the rest, but he had been expecting that. They all lost their inheritance, they didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that a nurse wormed her way into the old man’s heart in a way that no one else could.

After the quick stop at the Internet cafe, he thought about what he could do now. He had no money, he wasn’t allowed to leave the state, yet, and nobody of his family was in this state. He couldn’t go to anyone and crash there for a few nights, he couldn’t go to a hotel and rent a room. He was about to resolutely sign up for a life on the streets when another option popped into his head. Why he didn’t think about this before, he couldn’t answer. Maybe because his brain was rational enough to believe that this option was seemingly impossible. But yet…

He could at least try. And so he called a taxi, counted the few bills he still had, a quick calculation in his head determining that it would be enough for one trip, and hopped into the taxi, once it arrived. The driver pulled up an eyebrow when Ransom told him the address, but otherwise didn’t comment on it. He clearly recognized Ransom, but didn’t seem worried about anything.

And now he’s standing on the porch of his destination, too chicken to ring a fucking doorbell. He grits his teeth, annoyed at his lost confidence. Two years ago, he would’ve rung the doorbell and sauntered in, once someone opened the door. But now…

He faces the door again, turning his back to the dark, mysterious forest, and, with a shaking hand, pushes the doorbell. 

Its tone echoes through the house, letting every room know that there is a visitor outside, who wants to be let in. 

It doesn’t take long before the door is opened forcefully. He expects to see her standing opposite him, but much to his surprise it’s not. Instead, her mother scowls at him, murmuring something offensive in Spanish under her breath, and slams the door in his face. 

He drops his hand from where it was still hovering over the doorbell and lets out a resigned sigh. Guess he has to stay on the porch and walk back to town once the thunderstorm and rain have stopped. He sits down on the cold stone floor next to the door and leans his back against the wall. He lets his head fall back and closes his eyes. 

He thinks about what he’s going to do, once he’s back in town. He could try calling his mother again, maybe her number is somewhere on the internet. He could also contact his Nazi cousin via Twitter, tell him to call Linda, telling her she should meet him. Or at least send him money to… does his old bank account still work? 

He is interrupted by the door being pulled open again. The hinges still squeak terribly, one thing that hasn’t changed since last time. 

He opens his eyes and stares up at Marta Cabrera. Her mother is directly behind her, rapid-firing Spanish at her, but Marta doesn’t look at her. She looks at him. He can’t exactly say, but if someone would ask him later if she looked at him with fear or hate, he would without hesitation say that no, Marta Cabrera does not look at him with fear or hate. If he has to guess, he would say that she nearly looks thoughtful. 

She stands before him like this for a minute or more, in her soft sweater and even softer cardigan. With her wide, cotton pants and her comfy house slippers. What’s she doing with those outside?

He doesn’t notice she’s talking to him until she waves her hand in front of his face. He blinks a few times and focuses his gaze on her face.

“You can stay the night.”

He doesn’t believe he understood what she said. He’s sure she said that he _can’t_ stay the night.

She must’ve noticed the confusion and disbelief on his face because she repeats herself. “You can stay. In one of the guest rooms.”

“Oh…” he says, clears his throat and tries again. “Okay.”

They continue to look at each other and Ransom notices that he’s still sitting on the cold stone tiles. He lowers his head, grips the duffle bag in one hand, and pushes himself up with the other, coming to stand in front of Marta. 

They’re close and he is reminded again of how small she actually is. He takes a step back, not comfortable with the nearly non-existent distance between them, and looks down at his mud-covered, old boots. 

“Come on,” Marta quietly says and leads him into the foyer. Her mother is standing in the door frame leading to the living room and her eyes shoot daggers at him. Metaphorically speaking or not, he isn’t sure. He would trust her to shoot real daggers at him, after what he’s done to her daughter. 

He stands in the foyer, suddenly not knowing what to do. He’s used to just walk into a room and command it around, but if the months in prison have shown him one thing, it’s that he never actually was able to command a room. It’s just that everybody indulged him. Except maybe Marta. But his family? They let him play his little game, let him think he had power over them, he could tell people what to do. He can’t. 

And so he stands in the foyer, which is looking very different from when his grandfather still lived here. It still has the eerie atmosphere, still looks like it’s straight from a horror movie, but it also has changed. It seems brighter, as if finally it is able to breathe, as if something that suppressed its potential to be a beautiful house is now gone. 

He stands there, staring at the decorations, at the walls, at the carpet, at everything, and wonders if it was the right decision to come back here, into the house that holds only bad memories. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you want to yell about anything Knives Out- or Marvel-related, my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/depressivesth) is here. DMs are open, too.
> 
> Again, this is basically an Alternate Universe take on Ransom Drysdale. In the movie, he isn't capable of redemption/admitting to his mistakes and shitty behavior. 
> 
> I will add tags every time I update, but if you think I haven't tagged for something that I should tag for, shoot me a DM via Twitter (this way, I will definitely see it). Also, tell me if I should put additional warnings into chapter notes. I really appreciate that.


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